


Monologue

by aprilhayes



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprilhayes/pseuds/aprilhayes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss meditates on the nature of her self, her sex and her body and the words that describe it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monologue

My name is Katniss Everdeen. My home is district 12. There is no district 12. I’m a girl. I have a cunt.

They don’t talk about it, no one brings it up - but it’s always implied. Everything they do to me is about my cunt. They dress me up and flaunt me, the girl on fire, the hero, the tribute, the victor - and between my legs the cunt that they all know must exist.

Some of them want to rape it. Some to taste it. Probably some just to see it. It’s my last mystery - everything I did clothed is on screen anyway. 

Once they finish with me, my prep team, I look delicious. The boys left in the capitol and the districts who rewatch me kissing Peeta imagine me kissing them and they touch themselves - I know this. I’m famous. I’m an object. Millions of little Katnisses go flitting through the imaginations of orgasming boys every night. Girls too, probably. Sometimes it’s like I can feel them - little parts of myself splintering off to be used without permission, propelling litres of semen into tissues because my cunt is out of reach.

Like every part of me, my cunt has been abused and reshaped by the games. Every hair has been plucked from the outside of it with hot wax, right down into the crack of my ass - wherever hairs grew they’ve been wrenched away. I’ve been shaved, moisturised, trimmed and arranged. Greasy perfumed slickening agent has been massaged into my labia by Venia’s spread fingers - each digit finding a different route through the folds of skin and leaving me with a supple, mint-warmed feeling that draws my mind always to it when I walk. Throughout every stop of the tours and parades that they remade me for, I could feel it like a wound. I was never so aware of it in 12 - but they changed me. Made a woman from the hunter and added sex to everything. Then the fire. That changed me too.

Of course it isn’t like that now. Away from the team, my cunt has reverted. The hair has regrown. It’s back to the neat little package it always was - firm outer lips almost wholly containing the soft flesh that pokes out only a little further down, the hair - thick and dark - knitting the thing together and concealing. 

It’s a hunter’s cunt again. Unobtrusive and camouflaged. Animal like the prey I’m hunting - but they changed it when they made it central to me and I can still feel it. Hungry.

I always masturbated. From pretty young. I remember touching myself at the conclusions of dark days - it was necessary. It was never really about pleasure - I knew about orgasms and tension and that tension was a distraction from survival, so I masturbated efficiently. Always the same way, I would wait until I heard snoring from the others in the house and then I would lie on my back and hold my legs as far apart as I possibly could - far apart enough that I could feel the tendons stretching on the insides of my thighs and that little folds appeared where my limbs met my torso. Like that, my cunt would part a little, exposing my clitoris.

When I was wide open, I would lift my blanket so as to feel a draft of air tremble over me, rustling the hairs and gently teasing my natal cleft from the split and the apex of my pubic mound to the edge of my anus. I loved the feeling of exposure - it was like liberty. I alway saw liberty as something real and physical. Freedom wasn’t the defeat of the Capitol or some other concept related to distant things - freedom was the air on the other side of the fence, the air that brushed my cheek from the bowstring and this air - cold and moonlit air that blew in under the door and caressed between my splayed legs.

Usually I would smell myself then. My hot, pungent smell - as familiar as the dirt beneath a fingernail - carried in zephyrs to my nose. Only then would I imagine the presence of any other person. It was never so specific as ‘Gale is here, he puts his cock in me’ or ‘the boy with the bread is licking along my lips’ - my imaginary lovers were faceless males - animated spirits. In my mind they smelled me and I smelled them and they became dizzying images: cocks thick as rope and heavy with blood sinking through my cunt like spoons into butter. Assholes, my asshole that I’d probe with my finger and imagine was a male asshole, clean and musky and tacky to the touch as my wetness spread. Skin. Muscles. Cum - splashes of it, white and thick and alive with doomed genetics...

I would rub myself with all four fingers, my hand in a beckoning cup, inverted so that the pads of my digits pressed firmly against the whole upper half of my cunt, mashing my labia, clitoris and urethra into a manageable slab that I could massage together. Sometimes I would use my other hand to reach lower and part my vagina, dipping fingers in to draw the wetness out; or to play around my asshole.

It would be silent, and fast, and intense, and when I came, I would rock forward onto my feet so that my crotch rose off the bed and when I was coming I would let my hands fall away so that my cunt - red and flooded - could open fully to the air and convulse twitchily, surrounded by it. Sometimes I would have made myself wet enough that a tendril of moisture would ooze from me and slip down over my anus to pool beneath me. Sometimes I almost wished I was on camera.

But now I’ve had enough of cameras and those old orgasms were had by some other girl.

I still love the air. Cool air. Air with no fire in it. I think that the way the cool air licks at my body is similar to the way the fire did - they are opposites and opposites are always similar. Like Snow and Coin were opposites. Like Peeta and I. We’re opposites - he’s air where I’m fire - but he likes the outside too. 

He likes it when I suck his cock in the woods and, after a minute or two, sloppily withdraw to let my saliva dry on the sides of it - the evaporation chilling its urgent heat. We don’t say what we’re doing - but we both know. He does the same to me, bathing my cunt with his tongue then drawing away and always pausing to let it dry as the air caresses it. There’s an unknowable divide between us - we’ll never fully experience each other’s feelings - there’s no empathy with men. I can’t think what it would feel like to bear their weapons. But we both know the sensation of evaporating saliva on engorged skin, just like we both know the arena and we both know loss.

Our sex is like that. We look for things to share. Sensations without mystery that we can exchange and know together. We wash each other, sitting across in the same bath, Peeta’s toes nestling in my cunt as I curl mine around his cock. He tickles me and we laugh. When we’re clean, we take turns with tongues and lips. He laps at me, sinking the first inch of his tongue inside then startling me by reaching up to part my buttocks so that he can kiss the puckered flesh of my anus. Once he’s done that, and I’ve liked it, I have to do it to him too. He protests but concedes and though I don’t linger at it, it matters to me that I find myself leaning into his ass, my right hand gripping his shaft and extending my tongue to lick along the ridge of skin on the rear of his bunched scrotum and, just briefly, to tuck it into the dark space above it.

Then I press my breasts into his back and let him fuck my fist until he spills his cum onto the wooden floor of the mansion bathroom. I pinch the final thread of it away with the sides of my thumb and index finger, then lick the tiny droplet away and swallow it. Like it’s a ritual, he turns and slips a finger into my cunt, pulls out a droplet for himself and mimics my action. Then we kiss.

We fuck most days. We have routines around it. Like the nightmares which never go away, and the joy of going out to hunt: I’ve come to depend on fucking Peeta. There are so few people left in 12 that, when we’re alone, his erection sunk into my belly and my breasts flattened by the weight of him - we feel like the only survivors. It’s comforting. Like being back in the heat of battle, able to ignore the deaths of friends in the constant fight to survive. It might feel better if it was just us. If everyone had gone the way of all those loved ones and enemies, victors and victims. If there was one cock and one cunt in all the world, a necessary interlocking - peace at last among the human race... 

We don’t fuck like they must have in the capitol. 

I’ve seen what they called sex in the explicit videos that have leaked to the districts since the end of Snow’s government. Pristine, silk-smooth penises gliding unimpeded into greased up scentless vaginas - explosions of artificially colored cum arcing onto surgically enhanced bodies - girls in wigs with identical, ramrod straight penises in every hole they have, moaning loudly and smiling all the time. 

We don’t fuck like that. Peeta’s cock isn’t a sculpted piece of machinery - it hangs rudely from his bloom of gingerish pubic hair, his foreskin loose and real. When I touch him and provoke him, he curves slightly and veins stand out as the purple tip bulges into glistening life. When I want him, my cunt swells and relaxes. It lolls open like pounded meat - violently red and pungently wet. We do everything. I lie on my back, flat on my front, on my side, straddling him. I kneel and lower myself down onto my elbows, presenting my sex like a hole in a wall. When I do that, Peeta always takes a moment to take my cheeks in his palms and hold them apart to spread me. I can almost hear the pop as the moisture gives up on holding my inner lips together and they come apart before his eyes - maybe a single thread of lubricant joining them. Sometimes he’ll bend down and plant a kiss on my cunt as if it were a mouth - full and hot, smothering his face, his nose in my ass. Then he fucks me.

He enters in stages, first he’s shy with the tip - probing carefully - probably concerned that he’ll hurt me. Then he pushes - a firm, steady push that I resist on the inside but that is overwhelming as I relax and swallow him. Then he jerks in, taken by surprise. He sighs and he waits, I guess he’s adjusting to the feeling: the heat of me. Then he thrusts, finally burying himself and filling me, his balls bouncing lightly off my clitoris. I like to imagine the shape we make, seen from above, my lean body tapering out to my round and ample ass - a sacred heart of womanly softness skewered at its dimple by the angular cross of his cock. A heart on fire, like the old religions.

Where we join we’re animals. We stink, we ooze and we are not rational. We’ve talked about children. I’ve said no - but I know what my cunt wants. It sucks him hungrily, squeezing him within like a child’s hand round the neck of a bag of candy. I reach between my legs and slide two fingers to either side of his cock, feeling him plow me, the tickle of his pubes on my knuckles, the contrast of his rigidity with my yielding flesh, the way that each pull draws white wetness from me. I pull away and make that same inverted cup I did when I was young - only this time, on my knees and with a cock in me, the cup is righted and each mashing pass of the clitoris is also a beckoning - calling to his cum. 

I rub in time with his thrusts and my legs weaken. My heart races. My eyes close and I’m coming so fucking hard, I can feel his eyes on my clenching asshole and I can feel the rough blanket against the nipples on my swinging tits and I can hear him grunt and I can feel the flood of heat beneath my bellybutton as he looses a hosing of sperm into me. And my clit and my tits and my back and my arms and my heart and his cock and my cunt, my cunt, my cunt.

Private. Mine. Ours. But not yours. not any of you.


End file.
